your blood doesn't boil because it carries my sorrow
by lemonluden
Summary: 5 shot drabble, Misty-centric, Misty POV.


your blood doesn't boil because it carries my sorrow

(Misty-centric, Misty POV)

1: in fire

It's nights like these. It's the hours like these. It's the sweat on your forehead, the crickets and their song.

You never wake up screaming, even your body knows not to draw attention. Nowhere is safe. The sudden jolt that tears you from a nightmare and pushes you back to reality, you've grown to know it as a dear friend. You've been on the run for days, months, maybe always. You've stopped counting.

It's night like these, when you wake up from a dream in which you're still burning, arms tied, skin turning to ember. There's tiny seconds of lingering inbetweenness, before you can realize you're awake, that the haunting images are do not live beyond the past and the imagined. Horror's brevity, full of the smell of smoke, it dwells and follows you around, like chains on your ankles. No matter how fast you run, no matter what new place you end up in, you cannot escape your mind.

It's another night. Cold shivers dance on your back. You tremble like an untuned violin, shiver, sigh. You close your eyes and imagine waterfalls of fire.

You open your eyes. Sometimes it's hard to believe you're still here.

2: in trees

The swamps or Louisiana draw you. It's a silent song, something not quiet tangible, not quiet named, but something you feel beckoning you closer. You know New Orleans has been home to voodoo queens and you're certain witches have been here. But are there any still around? How long have you been running?

You decide to stay as far away from the lights and sights of the city as you can. You follow the path the Moon draws for you, frogs croaking in the distance, fragrant wildflowers intoxicating the slow, stagnant air. There's a tiny piece of land hidden amidst trees, protected by swamps and crocodiles around.

You make a home for yourself. Of course, you don't call it that, it's just a place to live. A small hut at best. Birds fly by leaving you branches, leaves. You understand their songs. When nature speaks to you, you feel less alone. You wish you could find others like you, others who could understand the silence in your lungs, the pressure of your bones, the silence of your eyes, the longing of your hands. But you have the wonders of nature, the animals, the plants, and that is a sweet comfort that you're grateful for.

You're only possession is an old tape player. Stevie Nicks' voices floats around your tiny kingdom in the evenings, lulling the wildflowers to dance with you. Once, twice, you venture to the limits of the city. You watch the flickering of house lights in the distance. They do not appeal to you. They're as cold as winter's kisses.

3: in wind

You sense another's magic near. It's something carried in the wind.

You help her, of course you do. You have been so desperate for the company of another.

Zoe, her name is Zoe, is a young thing. And she's enchanted and so engrossed with the boy she brings with her. You heal Kyle, you wouldn't refuse to help anyone, but truth be told, you're eager to mend his scars and alleviate the pain in his joints and his stitched up limbs because when you look at him and Zoe, you see something that you've never found before. The potential for a friendship.

You beg her to stay the night over, to come tomorrow, to visit you whenever she can. You promise stories, dinner, to show her the most beautiful parts of this forest, to teach her the magic of plants. It's not like you can't see she is in and over her head with dealing with other things, things you don't understand. But you do feel the invisible wrap of magic, like a coat around her arms, that has so much power. She has yet to discover herself, yet to learn. Perhaps so do you.

4: in tears

You work on healing Myrtle slowly, gently. Ever since meeting Zoe, your life has spiraled in many new directions. You feel the magic of New Orleans breathing in your neck, like whispers in languages you don't fully understand. There's something greater at work here.

Myrtle wakes you that night, the words of the cicadas silenced. You understand before the red-headed witch can explain fully that you need to run.

You were burned by your family once. And now you understand the fear of these men who were born and bred to hunt your kind. You hide in the shadows of trees and walk quietly by the rivers, guided by the crocodiles and night birds. You run towards the only place that has traces of hope for you.

Miss Robichaux's Academy, they call it a school for gifted young ladies, and you still find that funny. You hide Myrtle in the back garden, and, trying to calm the shakes of nerves coursing through your body, you ring the door.

When you meet here, she is a mystery. There is something unapologetic and strong rining in her voice. You know she will protect this coven and not let any wandering witch just waltz in. But there is a kindness, a tenderness that pierce your heart as she asks for your hand.

Her fingers wrap around your palm, softly and warmly like secret lullabies. She sees you. She doesn't hesitate, she doesn't wonder. She gives you a home. A place where you're welcomed. Where you won't be alone.

That night, sleeping in a proper bed, something that has not happened in years, you think of her. Your mind drifts towards the lands of sleep, as you imagine the mist from her eyes clearing up, the burns on her face moving away like sand dunes cast away by the touches of wind.

Tears draw down your cheeks. Cordelia, you whisper in the dark of your room, Cordelia. Her name touches your lips as if you've waited to know it all of your life. Perhaps you truly have.

5: in breath

The second time your hands touch, you are in the garden. It's your new personal safe haven. Unlike anyone else, she comes to learn from you, and to teach you. You share what you both know and you feel your heart bursting, your mind opening, your skills blooming. You have quickly grown an appreciation for her, how she tries to bring everyone together, to protect, to instruct, to let all the witches have a chance to thrive. And yet, as you tell her she's a great leader, and you watch her deflect, you're also quick to learn she doesn't really see herself for all the talent and wonder she possess.

Your hands touch as you're handing her a petal from a lily and you both pause for a glimpse of a moment. She doesn't have a flash this time, doesn't see any of the horrors of your past, the loneliness, the fear, the suffering. She lets her hand rest above yours, like a cloud passing a clear summer sky. This time, you see her. You inhale deeply, a small breath of peace finally comes to rest in your lungs. She smiles at you. You smile back.


End file.
